


can you tell me it's all wrong 'til it gets to me

by blackwood (transjon)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (im so sorry), Aphrodisiacs, Cervix Penetration, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Gangbang, M/M, Non-Human Genitalia, Oral Oviposition, Oral Sex, Oviposition, Spitroasting, Trans Male Character, shrug emoji?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:50:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22685554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transjon/pseuds/blackwood
Summary: Peter had saiddon’t feel pressuredand Martin hadn’t. Curious, sure. Pressured, no. He’s not sure why he decided to say yes. Maybe there’s something exciting about the idea of making himself useful in such a tangible way, to finally change something. Maybe he wanted to get fucked out of his head, for once, and this was convenient. Maybe he just wanted to sayfuck youto Elias by giving himself to Peter in the worst way he could think of.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/The Lukas Family
Comments: 30
Kudos: 131





	can you tell me it's all wrong 'til it gets to me

**Author's Note:**

> title is from cabo by ricky montgomery
> 
> uh...........they lay eggs? i didnt look into the lukas family specifics too hard. dont think on it too hard either
> 
> inspired by a prompt on the kink meme page abt the lukas family reproducing by laying eggs into hosts they bring home and thats uh, certainly something, but it does combine some of my absolutely fave kinks like: oviposition and uh. idk. oviposition. and vague nonhuman genitalia. and cervix penetration. 
> 
> apparently i literally do not care what people think about me and my kinks anymore.
> 
> transmasc genitals here are just referred to as uh, cock and then p neutral language to refer to the rest, but it does talk about like, the uterus and stuff
> 
> also like just like fyi everyone do not try cervix penetration it is deeply uncomfortable, painful, and dangerous LOL

There’s so many of them. 

Martin feels vaguely overwhelmed – he’d known in advance – he’d known, he’d seen them all when he’d come in, Peter leading him in by his hand, strong confident grip, they’d all looked and stared (and maybe their eyes had all looked a little wrong but he’d been too embarrassed to look at anyone for too long) and he’d felt their presence and just – he’d known. He’d known.

But that was before they were all _touching_ him. There’s so many hands, so many fingers, so many people touching him everywhere, under his clothes, unzipping and unbuttoning and pulling clothes up or down and off of him, touching the naked skin as it is revealed, and all of these hands are so _cold_. Martin keeps shivering. 

He can feel himself falling into something so close to a trance, a pleasant rush going through his head, drowning out the sounds and his thoughts. Almost feverish. Peter had said this would happen – something about the ritual – something about the touch – something hypnotic in their eyes. He feels _good_. All of these cool dry hands on his overheating body. 

(Peter had said _don’t feel pressured_ and Martin hadn’t. Curious, sure. Pressured, no. He’s not sure why he decided to say yes. Maybe there’s something exciting about the idea of making himself useful in such a tangible way, to finally change something. Maybe he wanted to get fucked out of his head, for once, and this was convenient. Maybe he just wanted to say _fuck you_ to Elias by giving himself to Peter in the worst way he could think of.)

Inside this house, this wandering, gigantic mansion, he feels so small and so cared for. The hands don’t stop touching him for even a second, at least three pairs on him at all times, and finally they’ve pulled all of his clothes off of him and he is naked, and shivering, and held. Someone is slipping their hand between his legs, and he spreads them eagerly, wet and ready. The hand touches him lightly, ghosting over his stiff cock, and he tries to thrust his hips against it but the more he tries to reach the hand the further away it slips. 

He cries out in frustration, and then the hands touching his chest and playing with his nipples grab him and lay him down on his back. What he’s laid down on is soft. Like a bed, almost. He doesn’t remember there being a bed here.

Someone opens his legs, wider, wider, settles between them. The person is naked – he can feel the naked, cool skin on the insides of his legs – and he wants to see, to look at their face, but his vision is blurry and all he can really see is – something human shaped. Just someone between his legs, touching his hips softly, making him shiver. Someone reaching their long fingers to touch his cock again, to play with it briefly. The hand goes away again, and it’s almost worse than before it’d touched him. He feels frustrated and sensitive and empty. Soothing hands come to rest in his hair. It feels good. He thinks it might be Peter. He can’t be sure.

The person between his legs comes closer, and it registers vaguely that something is poking at him, sliding around and twitching, warmer than the hands but still cooler than he’d expected. A shot of excitement and raw pleasure rushes through him when it finally, finally slides and bumps against his cock. It feels good. It’s just – 

Martin furrows his brows. 

This isn’t a human penis. 

“Peter,” he sighs, “what is that?”

Peter, who is indeed the one by his head, pets his hair softly, almost condescendingly, and says “don’t worry, Martin. You’re doing great.”

Martin shivers lightly. Whatever it is, it feels good. It slips in easily, and he doesn’t quite have the energy to moan, but he makes a light _aaa_ sound and the cock-analogue goes into him so deep, all the way in, as deep as it can go, and he clenches down on it. 

It’s on the slimmer side, but he can’t feel the hips of whoever it belongs to against his so it’s probably long. Longer than anything he’s ever taken. He sighs, gently. He wishes it was thicker, that he could have something to really grind against and clench around, something to fill him up and knock his breath out of him, and Peter notices him yearn and chuckles. 

“Patience,” he says. “Just wait.”

The thing inside of him moves slowly, just in and out at first. The person it belongs to isn’t fucking him like he’s used to – no gyrating hips or thrusting. It’s almost like it moves on its own, independent of the input of the person it’s attached to, and after a while it stops the in and out motion altogether. Instead it starts moving inside of him, almost side to side, and Martin tries to understand how it could do that, how it possibly could move like that, and then he thinks – it can’t possibly be one, but it feels like what he’d imagined a _tentacle_ would feel like, almost – and he moans, long, raw. 

There’s a feeling of being filled with liquid, and then there’s a spreading numbness deep inside of him. He whines in protest, but the _thing_ inside of him keeps moving and eventually the numbness dissipates, and he feels sensitive and shivery and hot all over. 

He almost gets used to it, this weird semi-parody of sex, until it unexpectedly pulls back almost all the way, and then pushes back inside, fast, and instead of gently bouncing back when it’s gotten as far as it can go it simply starts _pushing_.

He doesn’t feel it when after the thing struggles for a while it finally breaches the tight muscle and forces its way all the way inside of him. He tenses not from the feeling but from the knowledge, and for a second he feels acutely aware of the fact that he no longer can go back on this – that he no longer can reverse any of this. 

He doesn’t want to, either.

Peter is petting his hair. Someone’s mouth is on one of his nipples. There’s a pair of hands stroking over his thighs, and another ghosting over his cock, not touching, just teasing him, and then there’s a pressure building, spreading him apart, and something pops into him, traveling through the tentacle-like appendage and slowly, steadily pushing its way inside, and he thinks _ovipositor. It’s an ovipositor. This is an egg._

And that’s about as far as he can get before it’s pressing in, in, in, in, a relentless pressure he barely feels, and then he can feel the strange, heavy presence of it slip through, into his _womb_, and he throws his head back and sobs. He thinks the ovipositor has probably anchored itself inside, opened itself up like a flower and lodged itself in tight and secure, and then there’s another egg pushing in and he yells and it feels so _good_. 

This one goes in faster, stretching him wide open and settling inside of him with only maybe ten seconds in between, and the third one comes soon after. He feels almost drunk with how they feel, how the round, giving orbs stretch the ovipositor on either side, rubbing against his insides, the ridges standing out and pressing against him. How they release from the ovipositor and settle inside of him, how they fill him. 

The ovipositor withdraws, then, and he whines softly, feeling empty and cold. Someone leans close and gives him a few wide, long licks, cleaning him up. Martin tries to press into the touch but the person retreats.

“You’re doing amazing,” Peter says, and it feels like he’s a hundred kilometers away, and Martin whimpers at him, feeling heavy and full and like he’s being touched everywhere, encompassed, engulfed, like he _belongs_, finally, so thoroughly. 

The next ovipositor that pushes into him is bigger, and goes for his cervix immediately as soon as it’s deep enough to reach. Martin can’t feel it, exactly – just the pressure and then the give, and his brain can’t quite process the way it feels with whatever numbing agent the first one had put inside of him, but the knowledge that it’s so deep inside him is enough to have him bucking his hips, begging for _more_.

Aside from being physically much larger than the first one, the eggs it feeds to him are larger, and they push into him faster, one after another. He clenches down on each one futilely as they push against each other, against his cervix and then through and into his womb. It’s overwhelming, and his hips thrust up almost without him noticing. He can’t rub his thighs together around the ovipositor, but he tries anyway, desperate for contact, desperate to finally _come_. The hands petting his thighs wrap around them instead, holding his legs open, keeping him spread and easy and good for them.

The ovipositor retreats after depositing another two round, heavy eggs inside of him, and the next one takes its place almost immediately. 

Something appears in his peripheral vision, and before he can identify what it is it snakes its way around, and he goes _oh_. It’s another ovipositor. The tip nudges against his mouth, smearing something bitter against his lips, and he opens up hungrily and lets it fill his mouth as well. It feels soft and pliable and pleasant in his mouth, teasing his throat, and when he gags it releases a stream of liquid, and he realizes it’s probably the same thing the first one had rubbed against his cervix, before it’d shoved itself through. 

He must look distressed at this, because Peter gives him a friendly pat on the head and says “it’s okay, Martin, it’s not going to hurt.”

Martin isn’t worried that it’s going to hurt. He knows it’s not going to, his throat already going numb and tingly, no longer resisting against the slide of the ovipositor, but he _is_ worried if his body can handle being filled in so many ways at the same time. The ovipositor on his other end breaches his cervix and he wants so badly to moan but he _can’t._.

The ovipositor doesn’t care. Martin struggles to open his mouth to allow the eggs to pass into his mouth, and then they struggle to slide down his throat and for a moment he is afraid he’s going to suffocate. The ovipositor moves slightly, gives them a shove, and one by one they fall down his throat, and then his mouth fills with liquid and he’s swallowing desperately, scared he’s going to drown if he doesn’t. 

The ovipositor retreats. He feels sloshy and full. There’s a dull ache settling in his jaw, in his throat. The other one, still inside of him, pushes eggs into him finally, and they feel smaller and squishier. It feels weird, the squish of them when they press into him. They fill him so consistently, spreading evenly, so different to the larger orbs that’d passed through him with their brief presence touching one spot at a time. They rush into his womb in a steady stream. He can’t feel them, not even the pressure he’d felt with the bigger eggs, and he wonders if they’re filling up the space between the bigger ones, the ones already there. Like sand around rocks. 

He looks down at himself, his vision swimming, and he thinks _oh my god._ His stomach is visibly swollen, round and stretched, and for a horrible second he’s scared he’s going to explode, but Peter puts a gentle hand on his arm and says “you’re perfectly safe.”

He trusts him. He trusts the promise. He doesn’t protest when the next one slips in, holds him open again, and gives him more of the bigger eggs, maybe four, five, probably not more than that, all of them filling him up so good, so _perfect_. He reaches down with his hand, settles it on his stomach, and moans. There’s another ovipositor, and then another, and finally another with the small ones again, he’s getting sore, and the whole time all of those hands keep petting him, his nipples, his thighs, his hips, his throat – he starts wishing for more eggs going in through his mouth. He takes a deep breath and feels the eggs jostle inside, roll against each other. 

The ovipositor retreats. A hand settles on him, the heel of a big hand rolling his cock, oversensitive from the neglect, and he keens, thrusts into it. His eyes water when it pulls back.

Something presses against him again, and he almost starts crying, suddenly aware of how _full_ he is, and he starts saying “no more eggs” but Peter shushes him and says “it’s not eggs.”

Martin nods tearfully. “Okay,” he says. The thing pushes in, and he’s so wet and sloppy there’s almost no resistance. 

It’s not an ovipositor. It doesn’t feel like a human cock, exactly, but closer, and the man it belongs to fucks him like a human, hips meeting his, rough and deep and satisfying, and he sobs softly. It feels so good to be fucked, finally, _really_ fucked – the slick familiar drag of cock, the stretch. It’s not quite the same as when he’d last gotten fucked. There’s something different, something less human, but it’s close enough, and when the man comes inside of him he almost doesn’t realize that it goes on for longer than it should, that there’s more fluid spilling out of him than there should be –

But there’s a rapid, expanding feeling inside of him, and suddenly he thinks about Orbeez. The panic must show on his face because Peter is there again, and in his normal, reassuring, almost patronizing voice he says “you’ll be fine.” Martin nods tearily, and when the cock pulls out almost nothing trickles out of him. The little eggs inside of him keep expanding, and he feels like he’s drowning, like he’s being filled with eggs and fluid all the way to his lungs, and he struggles to breathe through it. 

Eventually they settle. Every breath he takes jostles his stomach, and he realizes, all at once, that he’s still hard and wet and that he _needs_ to be touched. 

“Please,” he whimpers. “Can I, please.”

It’s Peter that reaches between his legs, his callused cold hands a desperate relief, and Martin sobs and bucks his hips and Peter uses his other hand to push him down onto the bed by his hips, pressing on the eggs and his full, taut stomach. It’s so much. It’s so _much_ and Martin’s already almost crying from the stimulation alone, and this breaks him. He cries while Peter jerks him with two fingers and he cries as he comes, overstimulated and out of it and _full_ of eggs and pressure. 

Everyone else slips out of the room. Peter doesn’t quite kiss him, and he’s almost glad he doesn’t. He nuzzles his cheek, his throat, and he helps him get dressed, slowly. Martin feels unsteady. It’s so hard to find his balance with all of this weight pulling him down, pulling his point of balance forward, and as the fog clears, just slightly, he wonders briefly how he’s going to explain this to anyone. 

He staggers outside. Peter allows him to lean against him, and he does, holding onto his arm like he’s afraid he’s going to fall. 

“You should take the week off,” Peter says casually, although Martin can tell he can’t stop staring at his swollen stomach. He almost wishes he would touch him there, pet him, cradle it, the skin sensitive and sore and stretched tighter than he’d ever thought would be possible. His hands had felt so good on him. 

“Yeah,” he breathes out. He wonders if Peter will be there when they’re ready to come out. If he’ll pet his hair and praise him. If he’ll let him have more of the pleasant numbing liquid. If he’ll touch him while he pushes. 

Peter gives him a brief glance. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking, not like Elias can, but he’s sure he can tell what he’s thinking, still, somehow. Peter does that. Maybe he’s just perceptive. Maybe Martin is just too obvious.

“Be seeing you,” he says. 

And then he’s gone, and Martin is leaning against his car door, alone and cold and feeling heavier he ever has.

**Author's Note:**

> im too ashamed to link my tumblr. im shy.


End file.
